


Patroclus Lost

by mscirce (avengerslut)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Old Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, mayhaps a post endgame bucky character study, ventured into bucky's mind and made myself cry a lil bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avengerslut/pseuds/mscirce
Summary: In which Bucky prepares French appetizers and ignores the man who abandoned him and all his broken pieces.In which Sam Wilson knocks on Bucky's door to the tune of "Trouble Man", carrying a six pack in one hand and an unwanted message in the other.In which Steve sits alone miles away, but his presence lingers in every nook of the two mens' lives.A post-endgame ficlet that felt more obligation than desire. Set between endgame and FATWS if it ever does come out.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Patroclus Lost

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference the story of Achilles and Patroclus in Greek mythology, which people have pointed out parallels Bucky and Steve's relationship. I recently read the Song of Achilles, (highly recommend, although I have not been emotionally well since) which inspired it. This is much different than my other works, but I felt a need to do Bucky justice. I hope you enjoy!

Shit.

He could have sworn he bought goat cheese the last time he stopped at Labriola’s. He remembers employing the graying little Italian man to help him find it amongst the intimidating wall of cheeses that lined the back of the shop. He didn’t know they still made rounds of cheese that big. Looked like tires.

Maybe he’d accidentally asked for gruyére instead. His Italian is decent, but he hadn’t used it enough with HYDRA to keep sharp. It’d been mostly Russian. He’s found that his French is the worst, but also his favorite. The language feels unique on his tongue. He likes to read the recipes in his secondhand French cookbook out loud just to feel the hum of the z’s and j’s roll around in his mouth.  _ Fromage _ . Cheese.  _ Fromage manquant _ . Missing cheese.

What the hell. The cheese drawer is full and no goat cheese. Bucky huffs to himself. He goes to Labriola’s on Tuesdays. That’s routine. A hasty trip today will fuck up his schedule and he won’t be able to sleep. He’ll have to force down one of those chalky little pills he hates to even think about getting a single wink.

He closes the door of the fridge to think. A little yellow sticky note next to the ice dispenser catches his eye.

_ Goat cheese in crisper. _

Right.

There it is, nestled nicely beside a cucumber. He swipes it and peels open the package, carefully dropping the little wet log of cheese into a bowl. It’s a nice shade of blue with only a small chip in the rim. Two dollars at the local Goodwill. One of his finer purchases.

He sprinkles some pepper atop the cheese, then some thyme. He takes a whiff before closing the lid on the spice and placing it back in his cabinet. The preface of his cookbook instructs him to make cooking an all-sensory experience.  _ Cook not with simply your hands and tongue, but with your eyes, ears, and nose. Only when you do this will cooking ascend from simply a means of survival to an art form in which one can discover oneself in the softness of flour, the color of a cherry, the scent of Roquefort. _ The author is good with words. She has a way of making everything sound beautiful. He could just be mixing curdled goat milk with a bunch of ground up dried plants, but to her it’s a blending of textures, flavors, colors, and thus, cultures. Or something.

He mixes the cheese and spices together, tastes it, adds a pinch more pepper, mixes again. The oven chimes, ready to go, and he drizzles a bit of olive oil over the slices of French bread loaded on a cookie sheet and places it carefully inside. Five minutes, or until the edges are golden brown. Thirty seconds to put his ingredients away, ten to wash his hands, twenty to wipe the counter, leaving him exactly four to lay belly-up on the floor of the adjoined living room and practice his French.

That is, unless Sam Wilson is exactly nine minutes too early. The buzzing that signals his arrival interrupts Bucky’s careful pronunciation of the delicate French that implores him  _ to allow the flavors of goat cheese and sweet peach transport him to a sunny countryside in France _ . He marks his place in the cookbook and hops up, grabbing the metal baseball bat leans casually against the wall like it’s trying to disguise itself as part of the décor. He spins it a few times before propping it against a shoulder and answering the buzz.

“Hello?”

Static. “It’s me. Buzz me up?”

Hmm. Could be Sam. Could be a Not Sam with more hostile intentions. “Who?”

“Sam. Uh… oh, you have a red couch. Bookshelf next to it. We got it from the Salvation Army for, like, twenty bucks. Veterans’ benefits, baby.” His chuckle mixes with the static to produce a fuzzy crackling that moves up and down.

Genuine enough. He buzzes Probably Sam up and returns to the oven, where the last seconds are ticking down on the bread. He waits patiently until the chime of the timer and pulls the sheet out. Fragrant and golden-crusted. He can almost feel the swaying grass of that French countryside.

Bread, cheese, bowl of sliced peaches. He makes a little assembly line on the kitchen island, taking a piece of bread, smearing a thick dollop of cheese onto it, then topping it with three or four slices of peach. The flesh hand holds his bread- appreciating its crisp edges, of course- while the new one works the butter knife. For as recently as he was gifted it, the Wakandan prosthetic is remarkably intuitive. Better than the last one with all its creaky plates and dried blood between the ridges. Sometimes he misses Wakanda and a little rag covering his armless shoulder. Wasn’t very convenient, but for the first time in fifty years it was only  _ him  _ and all  _ his. _

Bread, cheese, peaches. But he isn’t complaining. If it can spread some cheese and wipe his ass it’s good enough for him.

Three hard knocks on the door. Then, a bunch of little knuckle taps in tune to some song Sam was playing in his car a few days ago. A lilting voice drifts through the door, singing. “Let me innn, you hundred-year-old bastard, and give me something to eeeat…”

Scratch the Probably. Only one person can be that confident at the door of an apartment he knows is rigged with two separate booby traps and inhabited by a trauma-ridden war vet.

He carefully places a last slice of peach and wipes his hands. “Coming.”

He taps out the seventeen digits on the keypad right of the door and checks the camera. Sam shimmies on the little screen still humming to himself. Jesus. Sometimes he wonders where Steve found this guy.

He opens the door and Sam ceases his shimmy, giving Bucky a firm clap on the back. “My man. What’s cookin’ in here?”

“Peach tartine.” He closes the door as Sam slips in with an exaggerated inhale.

“Great.” He holds up a six-pack of beer. “Here’s my side dish.”

Bucky brings the plate of completed tartines to the living space and places it on the coffee table before grabbing a beer. He joins Sam on the indeed red couch and flicks off his cap with a metal thumb, doing likewise to Sam’s when he hands it to him wordlessly. He can’t get drunk, but he likes the taste. It’s not too similar to the watery brews he remembers from back then, but the warmth that traverses down his throat and settles in his stomach with each sip is the same.

Sam carefully lifts a tartine to his mouth and takes a huge bite. Bucky tries to not seem too eager for a response, but Sam’s a fair critic and he values the input.

Sam chews and swallows at an obnoxiously slow pace. Bucky’s eyes flit between his beer and Sam’s face.

“Man, that’s somethin’ else.” He licks a little goat cheese off his thumb and takes a satisfied swig of his beer. “Like my own little French kitchen in here.”

Bucky exhales. He approves. He’ll write it down in the journal later. Add to the list of things he’s done in the last few months that are morally above mass murder.  _ Made a peach tartine that Sam liked.  _ Yes, that and growing a tiny basil plant on his windowsill (yesterday’s entry) and rounding up his Labriola’s total to the nearest dollar for pancreatic cancer research (last Tuesday). Sam thought the journal was a good idea. Bucky thinks it’s stupid as hell. But it keeps his therapist off his ass.

Sam grabs the remote and flicks on the television. A baseball game plays. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. They have swanky new uniforms and announcers without crackly voices, but the game is the same. He doesn’t use the TV often, but when he does, Bucky indulges in baseball. It is the one guilty pleasure he allows himself. One way to reminisce the past before he gets annoyed with himself and turns off the damn screen and rage-bakes a loaf of focaccia.

He isn’t gonna be like Steve.

He doesn’t look at the screen, instead reaching for a tartine and focusing on the French lady’s instruction of proper food appreciation. He’s just taking the bite when Sam speaks, so his mouth’s full.

“He asked about you again.”

He closes his eyes and chews. The tang of the goat cheese does bring out the sweetness of the peach. It’s a good combination.

He swallows.

“Hm.”

Sam doesn’t seem too fazed by his apathetic response. He reaches for another tartine, and Bucky hopes it means he’s dropped the subject.

Then, five minutes later: “I think you should go see him.”

_ I think you should shut the fuck up  _ “Maybe. Kinda busy.”

A pause. “You’re not.”

“Hm?”

Sam turns to him. “You’re not. Busy, I mean. Just know you aren’t bullshitting me, man. I’m all for the simple life, but I drop it because I know you’re uncomfortable.” He takes a swig of beer. “You don’t want to. Just say it.”

Bucky fixes him with the most expressionless face he can muster. “I don’t want to.”

Sam nods. “There. Thank you.” 

Another drink. “But I think you should.”

_ I think you should shut the fuck up  _ “And why’s that?” he asks flatly. He can feel a hot little ball begin to toss itself around in his stomach and takes a few deep breaths quiet enough that Sam can’t hear. His therapist told him to think of it as the breath cooling off the heat of the anger. But this particular ball that likes to appear with any mention of Rogers’ name doesn’t really like to be cooled off.

“I think…” Sam swallows, and Bucky gets nervous. Sure, Sam’s brought up him visiting Steve before- he hasn’t seen him since that day next to the lake- but he’s always dropped it when Bucky zones himself back out into apathy. He puts on an expressionless face and uses the flat voice he is employing now, until Sam realizes that he is essentially speaking to a brick wall.

“I think he’s waiting for you.”

Bucky scoffs reflexively, breaking the empty expression. Sam’s looking at him, but he keeps his eyes glued to the screen. He takes a swig of beer and wishes it was stronger.

“Waiting for me to visit him?”

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, but…” He looks down at the beer in his hands. “I think he’s waiting to see you so he can… move on.”

There’s a hard lump in his throat that he wishes was an oversized bite of tartine.

“He’s ready to die, Bucky. But he’s not gonna let himself go until he sees you again.”

The beer bottle in his metal hand makes the tiniest clinking sound, and he realizes that he’s squeezed a crack down its length. He sets it down quickly on the coffee table and runs a hand through his hair, clears his throat. Leave it to Sam to fuck up a perfectly good afternoon of cheap beer and homemade French appetizers.

Sam looks at him expectantly, and he can feel the little bubble of nerves rise again. He wants to breathe, but Sam wants him to talk, and apparently Steve wants to fucking die-

“Well, I don’t really know what to say to that, I mean you-“  _ Jesus his voice is so fucking shrill. _

“I’m sorry, man, I just thought you should know that I think he’s ready-“

The hot ball inside him swells, pushing itself out his throat.

“ _THEN HE CAN FUCKING DIE_ !” he yells.

A beat.

He lurches out of the couch and paces across the family room. His hands clench and unclench, rubbing his thigh, rubbing his hair, anything to stop them from fucking shaking like he’s sitting naked in the Arctic.

“I just _ … fuck _ .” Hot tears threaten his eyes. Why the fuck would Sam tell him that?

Sam stands carefully and holds a hand out. “Listen, I’m sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to see him, man.”

Bucky ignores him, tugging at his hair sharply. The therapist said to focus on finding things in the room when he panicked like this, but grounding himself with pain had always proved somewhat more effective. But the therapist said he shouldn’t hurt himself anymore, because he-

“Breathe, man.”

“I’m…” He rubs his eyes, the panic grows in his throat again and forces the words out in a shout.

“I’m so  _ fucking sick _ of people telling me what I should think of him! How he deserved this, how I should be happy he got to live the life he never got.” He looks at Sam as the tears finally spill over despite his best efforts. The words lurch up his throat, and he can’t stop them.

“I NEVER GOT THAT FUCKING LIFE. I DIDN’T GET ANYTHING.”

The TV chirps behind him so infuriatingly that he turns and punches a hole straight through the screen and out the other end. Sparks fly around his metal arm and he wishes he’d used the flesh one. He wants to bleed. To burn.

He turns back to where Sam’s watching. His eyes are wide, but he’s made no move to stop Bucky or get help.

Finally, someone’s quiet. Ready to listen. Wanting to listen, even. Even if they’re being forced by the threat of a violent breakdown occurring in front of them. Finally, someone not giving their fucking stupid  _ opinion. _

“I was there for him his whole fucking life. I saved his sorry ass when it was getting beaten in every alleyway in Brooklyn. I cried on my bed like a baby the night before I shipped off because I knew I wouldn’t be there to protect him anymore.”

“Then they tell me he almost died trying to save my sorry ass. Then we both get beat to shit because he chose me over the one man who’s believed in him more than anyone since he woke up. Whose mom I fucking choked out. He’s a fugitive for years because of  _ me _ .”

He shakes his head. “I woke up in that chamber in Wakanda with nothing. Nothing but Steve. But that was enough, right?”

He looks at Sam, wanting him to understand. Needing him to understand. Because if Sam doesn’t, nobody will.

“Steve was enough for me, because I thought he needed me just as much as I needed him. I thought I knew if he went through so many years of shit just to find me and fix me up enough, he’d be there for me when I was better.”

Sam’s eyes are red-rimmed and his jaw is clenched. Bucky imagines he must look much worse.

“I thought I was enough.”

He shakes his head again and wipes his eyes off. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to tell his therapist or keep it inside or write it down or  _ something.  _ Because if he kept it contained, kept it professional, kept it secret, he wouldn’t ever have to admit to himself that the one person he’d cared most for and relied on his whole life decided he wasn’t enough. All that time, all those years of fighting and fugitism and blows to the head and to the heart just weren’t worth it for a murderer with a broken mind.

He wondered often when Steve had realized that. Was it in Wakanda, when Bucky had approached him at the Quinjet feeling an emotion almost comparable to actual happiness? Or was it when he fluttered into dust, calling Steve’s name and catching one last glance of his friend before he was swept into nothingness? When he returned to a war full of magic and aliens and everything that made him and his gun and his belly full of nerves feel so out of place?

Or was it earlier? When Steve crushed the center of Stark’s metal suit for him? When he went on the run for years because of him? When he had to ask favors of a royal king on behalf of his broken friend?

When did Steve look at him and realize that he just wasn’t worth all the trouble?

“He got a perfect life. Perfect dame, bunch of kids I bet. Nice little house he used to talk about wanting. Lots of dancing. And everyone tells me that it’s what he deserves. That it was worth it, all he’d done.”

He rubs his eyes and feels a joyless smile curve his lips. It’s been there a lot lately.

“I wasn’t worth it.” His voice chokes on itself, and he clears his throat. “He left me with nothing.”

Sam clears his throat and clenches his jaw again. His cheeks are wet. That’s surprising. Bucky thought he’d be used to sob stories.

“Bucky-“

“Y’know what I wonder sometimes?”

Sam closes his mouth and looks at him with a sort of miserable anticipation, as if he’s about to hear what will break his heart forever. 

It won’t. But it broke Bucky’s.

“I wonder if he thought about me. When he was with Peggy. I woulda been somewhere in the east. Getting my arm all cut up and my brains fried to shit. Getting frozen every time they didn’t need me and then zapped back to life. I just…” His voice breaks again.

“I- d’you think he thought of me?”

_ Of course he fucking didn’t _ . Bucky regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth and stands again. Steve didn’t care. Bucky was a burden. Steve’s second life was a chance at life without that.

The anger returns twofold. He points at Sam accusingly before he can answer. “Steve wants to fucking die, huh?”

“Yes,” Sam answers softly.

“Steve.” Bucky nods. “With a nice set of memories, a nice life behind him. With that cabin he sits in all day and draws. Steve got EVERYTHING, I GOT NOTHING. I’M THE ONE WHO WANTS TO FUCKING DIE!”

His voice scrapes and dies on the last word and it’s out. His biggest secret. He’s free.

Bucky collapses into himself on the floor. His body shakes with the sobs that force their way up from deep within him and refuse to stop.

Sam’s suddenly knelt next to him. A hand rubs his back as Sam chants a constant stream of “ _ It’s okay _ ” and “ _ You’re okay _ ”. He’s not okay. He very much doubts he’ll ever be. But it’s a comforting idea.

“It’s not your fault,” Sam says.

Bucky just weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I would have loved to write a more emotionally satisfying ending, but I feel this is where we are right now with Bucky at the stage between Endgame and FATWS. I really hope the show does the depth of his character justice. I might continue this if inspired, but as of now it'll stand alone. If you enjoyed, comments and kudos are my breath of life and always appreciated.


End file.
